Dusk (19 page)

That crack came unbeckoned.

The mind suddenly exploded up and out of the real world, a maelstrom of confused emotions blended with pain and surprise. The shade backed away and let the mind soar, expand, open itself out until it settled once again just beyond the boundaries of unreality. There it dreamed and reveled once again in its knowledge. But there was something ever-present—a worry, a fear, a dread—that the shade could work on.

It approached, dipped down and found itself sharing.

The mind recoiled. The shade rejoiced. It spread itself and was instantly dizzied by the sensations and emotions therein. There was pain and the taste of grass and mud, the sound of distant shouting and the sense of a heartbeat, fast and irregular, grasped in an icy fist of fear. It opened its mouth and shouted, felt the thing it had become shouting along with it, raising a voice that echoed back again and again. It could smell heather and blood, feel something sharp pressing into its face and something soft and cool next to that, tickling its mouth.

It was a person. Its name was Alishia.

The shade screamed again from sheer delight and Alishia jumped to her feet, laughing and spinning around, tripping and jarring her knees and palms on rough rock, hardly noticing the pain.

For a few seconds that she could not explain, Alishia reveled in the simple fact that she was alive. And that life was rich with potential.

Chapter 14

WHEN RAFE WOKE
it was dark. Weak moonlight bled into the room from two wide vents high in the wall, giving enough light for him to recognize where he was. He tried to sit up but his head thudded, pain spearing into his eyes and down his neck. He groaned, held his temples and sat up slowly, trying to hold the pain so that it did not move around. He’d had headaches before, but nothing like this. Perhaps Hope had given him some bad rotwine without his noticing. He had seen plenty of people like this in Trengborne, suffering harsh hangovers each morning and feeding them again come afternoon and evening.

He looked around the room—the walls adorned with many shadows, the odors of the place more noticeable now that he could see less—and then he saw Hope. She was sitting in a chair by the far wall. Her hair was silhouetted against the stone by the weak moonlight, sticking up like a nest of sleek snakes, and though her face was in shadow Rafe was sure he could make out her tattoos, shifting slowly to mirror the effect of her hair. He held his breath for a moment and heard her slow, heavy breathing.

He realized suddenly that he was naked. It was cold, even though a few spluttering embers remained in the open fire, and Rafe wished that he could find his clothes without moving. His headache had come to terms with him sitting upright, but still it pounded at the backs of his eyes.

He ran his hand down over his stomach. Hope had given him a reason for his lack of a navel, and it was not a reason he liked. She had been right, he
had
begun to wonder, but somehow the idea of asking his parents had always seemed wrong.

Something was whispering in his ear. He turned his head quickly to look behind him, wincing at the pain but holding his breath, waiting to see, wanting not to. There were only shadows, deeper within his own. The whispering continued, words in a language he could not understand. The meaning was way beyond his grasp. The source of the whispers moved to his other ear and then inside his head, soothing the ache there, numbing the pain and planting fresh, potent ideas that he shied away from. He did not understand fully, but there was nothing hiding the power that these voices imparted. They breathed the smell of grass in rolling meadows and the tang of fresh snow on mountaintops, inspired the taste of rain on his tongue and the feel of a breeze across his skin. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. The voices paused as if awaiting an answer, and when none was given—he did not know how—they faded quickly away, leaving him sitting there in the dark with no headache, warm and, for the first time in two days, unafraid.

“You’ve been dreaming as well,” a voice said from the dark. Hope was still awake. Rafe was hardly surprised. “I’ve been sitting here watching you. Trying to come to terms with things, with what I know. Trying to work out what to do next. You’ve been dreaming and talking in a language I haven’t heard spoken in my lifetime, and you sit there awake and now you’ll tell me you’re just a farm boy, you don’t know what I’m on about. I can understand your confusion. But I also sit here confident that I have a miracle sleeping in my bed. And that miracle is the future.”

“You gave me something to make me sleep,” Rafe said, the intended anger failing to come through.

“You needed to rest. You’ve been through a lot, farm boy. And there’ll be more to come. You need your strength, your energy. You’ll need your wits about you. There are people who would do their best to hurt you, some who may want what you have for their own. Many who’ll believe they can use you.”

“Like you?”

Hope was silent for a long while, motionless in the darkness with moonlight kissing the fringes of her face. Rafe could just make out the tattoos now, and they shifted as if she was smiling, frowning, smiling again.

“I’ve already told you that I’ve been waiting for a long time,” she said. “But now you’re here . . . I don’t know what to do. I just don’t know.”

“Where are my clothes?”

“I’ve washed them for you. They’ll be dry soon. Don’t go!” Her voice changed instantly, from calm to pleading. “Rafe, don’t leave me. I’ve waited so long, I want to help you, I want to be with you for as long as I can. To see it happen. To be nearby when it happens!”

“When what happens?” Those voices again, whispering at the fringes of his mind as if plotting amongst themselves. This time he smelled the bitter mineral breath of the underground. Or perhaps it was only a waft of smoke from the dying fire.

“When you finally realize who you are.”

“I’m Rafe Baburn. I feel like I’m going mad sometimes, but I know who I am. I’m Rafe Baburn, and my parents are dead.”

She did not reply for a long time, as if sitting there in the dark trying to decide just what to say. Rafe hugged a blanket around him and sat there too, comfortable even though he could see little. Hope—this witch, this whore—had drugged him and stripped him, but still he was sure that she meant him no harm. If she did, she’d had ample opportunity to hurt him while he was asleep.

“I’ve been sitting here thinking all night,” she said at last. “I’ve led a long, hard life looking for signs of magic, seeking it the only way I knew. Few people tell me the truth when they see I’m a witch—people regard me as a disciple of lost magic—but plenty of men talk to a whore. I’ve heard so many things, boy, while I’m cleaning myself up and they’re lying fat and sated in that bed. I’ve heard about wives who no longer love, children who flee home, men who hate, and some who find love in those few minutes after we’ve fucked. Love for themselves, maybe, or for the wives they’ve just betrayed. Guilt is a fickle thing, and there’s been enough of it in this room to last me lifetimes. Though never my own. I’ve never felt bad about what I do, never at fault or used. It’s me doing the using, Rafe, because I know more than most. There are plenty of whores in Pavisse, but few who want to talk afterward. What wisdom they ignore! All that knowledge they waste, shunning talk for a chew of stale fledge or a drag of dream-mites. I’ve had a soldier of the Duke’s Inner Guard in that bed, a banished Shantasi mystic, a sailor from beyond the Western Shores, a merchant who travels south of Kang Kang to trade favors and dreams with the things that live there . . . I’ve had them all, and spoken to them all. And every time I’m being humped or screwed or hit, I’m thinking about what you represent. I’m thinking about the magic that one day will give me a real life.”

Rafe hardly knew what to think of what she was saying. Much of it confused him, frightened him, and so he stayed silent, not wishing to interrupt. No voices spoke to him, no smells or tastes came, and he wondered whether they too were silently listening to this old witch.

“And you’re here, Rafe. And now that I think I know what you are, I have no idea what to do. Do you think that’s foolish? Do you think I’m mad? I’ve waited for you for so long, but now that you’re here I can barely move.”

“Not mad,” Rafe whispered, although he had little confidence in that.

“After all that time asking, searching, listening for a sign or the smallest hint that things had swung around, changed . . . I never expected to find you myself. Curled up in a doorway, trying to escape the world I’ve lived in forever.” She fell silent for a time, rocking slowly in her chair.

Light was creeping back into the room. Rafe had not noticed it happening, but he could make out form in the shapes on the wall now, and when he glanced across at Hope he could see her closed eyes, welling tears.

“I’m hungry,” he said.

Hope’s eyes snapped open. She wiped at the tears with her shirtsleeves and stood. “Of course you are. So am I. Son, I’m going out for food. There’s a trader down the street who will have opened by now. You stay here. Don’t touch anything, and
don’t
open the door! You cannot be seen by anyone.
Anyone.
”

“I don’t know what to do,” Rafe said, and he felt his own tears coming. “Everyone I know is dead. I have to get back to Uncle Vance, he’ll know what to do. He’ll look after me.”

“Is that the same uncle that left you to wander to the outskirts of the hidden districts? Not a good place to be, son. It’s a good job it was me who found you and not someone else.” Hope shrugged on a cloak and picked up a couple of objects from a table against a wall.

“He’s all I have left,” Rafe said, heartbroken at the truth of things. “He’ll help me.”

“Well, whatever. Stay here for now. I’ll be back before you notice I’m gone. Then we can eat and talk things over a little more.” Hope smiled at him before leaving, but it was not an expression that made Rafe feel comfortable and safe.

HOPE EMERGED ONTO
the street and leaned against a wall for a moment, gathering her thoughts. There was plenty she had not told Rafe, but he was a mass of mysteries himself. He mourned dead parents that she was certain were not his. He wished for an uncle who was no relation, someone who had been so keen to help that he had let his grief-stricken “nephew” out into the streets around the hidden districts. He was a young lad barely embracing manhood, and yet he could well hold the future in his palms.

Hope shook her head. She had heard so many stories, so much wild mythology twisted over time so that any spark of truth must be long malformed, that she had stopped truly believing years ago. And now magic was alive and well in her basement rooms. She had
thought
she still believed, had continued living as though she knew it would happen eventually, but in reality, she had given up hope.

He has no navel.
But even that was now more myth than anything else. She was thrilled, excited and terrified, but it might take some time for her belief to catch up with her enthusiasm. And perhaps it would take proof.

If Rafe was truly a conduit for magic reborn, she must surely see it soon.

She walked past traders setting their stalls and dodged people slumped in the gutters, drunkenness having negated prejudice to collapse them all together. The streets were coming slowly to life, and most people walked slowly, like apathetic blood through the veins of the aging city. Hope stepped aside to let an old fodder pass by, the woman’s flabby stomach and breasts almost reaching her thighs. She wondered whether a woman from a race once bred for food could ever truly hope for anything more. If magic returned, would it help? Nobody really knew. Nobody alive now had known magic. It was a mystery, and evidence of its previous existence had been melting away. Those dead machines she could see around her had merged into buildings, many of the machines put to disrespectful use: a toilet; a water trough for horses; the frame of a brothel doorway. These things that generations ago had performed miracles were now merely building blocks of today’s degradation.

She arrived at her destination and stood by while Mogart opened his shop. He was an old man, a coal miner whose stockiness had long since gone to fat, and Hope was used to him being slow.

“Morning, Mogart.”

“Eh? Oh, Hope, you damn witch! What brings you here so early? I thought you preferred the dark.”

“I’m hungry, you old fool.” She clapped him on the shoulder and grimaced at the puff of dust from his clothes. “Anything tasty this morning?”

“Help me with this and I’ll tell you.” Mogart was shoving a timber shutter from his shop doorway, and Hope added her strength and guided it into its housing. Mogart huffed and puffed, turned to his cart and began uncovering boxes. Hope saw vegetables, a few wrinkled fruits and some pale fish, probably caught from the river last night. He would claim they were from fisheries on the Western Shores, of course, but Hope knew the difference. Fish from the Shores did not taste of shit.

“Anything nice?” she asked again.

“What?”

“Anything
nice
?”

“It’s all nice, whore!”

Hope laughed and shoved Mogart into the shop ahead of her. The place stank as if it had not been cleaned out for many moons—which was probably the case—and Mogart was not the most hygienic of people, but Hope liked him. He had traveled some in his youth, working from mine to mine in the Widow’s Peaks and the mountains of Long Marrakash. He had stories, most of which she had heard many times before, but he was also adept at keeping his ear to the ground. His feigned deafness served him well, as did his age and unkempt appearance. People with secrets never seemed to consider him a threat, and they often talked freely before him, in his shop or huddled in corners of the Dead Sea Tavern, where he spent his evenings.

“Anything for me this morning?” Hope asked absently, picking out the least rancid fruits for Rafe’s breakfast. Old habits die hard, and even though everything had changed since yesterday, Hope still sought knowledge.

“Oh Mage shit, I think you’ll like this one,” he said. “Red Monks in Pavisse! One passed right by the Dead Sea last night! I didn’t see it myself, of course, but three of the others were just coming in and they watched it pass. Didn’t know what it was, but from their description, I knew.
I
knew! And down at the river this morning, old Mad Jennson told me he saw a demon in red just before dawn. Red Monks, Hope, what in the name of Kang Kang do we get next? You know, there’s talk that . . .”

But Hope was no longer listening.

She dashed from Mogart’s store and headed up the street, dodging people, barely hearing the protestations behind her. She realized that she had left with a handful of yellow apples, so she threw them down behind her in the hope that the trader would see. They had to flee, and she did not want Mogart’s last thoughts of her to be
Thief
!

She opened the front door and ran downstairs to her basement room.
He’s gone,
she thought,
he’ll be gone and there’ll be no sign of where. He’s only just got here in my life and now he’ll be gone.
But Rafe was still there, dressed now, sitting on the bed and looking up with fear in his eyes.

“We’re leaving!” she said.

“But Uncle Vance—”

“He’s already dead. There are Red Monks in Pavisse, son. They’ll be looking for you.”